Hello, My Deer

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Whenever I catch a flurry of movement, a flash of fur out of the corner of my eye, I have a mini-heart attack.  Even after six years, the thought of roaming wildlife still freaks me out a bit. When I let Vito out early in the morning or late at night, I still stand at the front door with a hockey stick ready to chase off on any renegade coyotes looking to snack on my little pork chop. The vigilance has not waned. Get off my lawn! For the past two seasons, we've had a family of six deer traversing the woods and brook behind our house and they're so much fun to watch.  Yesterday morning, I caught this curious little one out of the corner of my eye.  Instead of having a panic attack, I calmly reached for my camera.  I think I've had a break through.

Mista Steamy

So this is what happens after a year's worth of inertia.  I ripped up my forearm in a senior citizen yoga class last week and am back in the land of limited motion. I can't even ball up my left fist in blind rage. Exercise-wise, I've been taking baby steps so as not to pop an implant, so this pathetic injury is all about being woefully out of shape.  These days, I get winded playing Wii and almost pass out after vacuuming a small room.  So I'm on the yogi DL for the week.  


In the meantime, I figured it was high time to venture back into the steam room. The steam room and I go way back.  Back in the day, I would slip unnoticed into the steam room at the Boston Harbor Hotel during lunch hour.  Today, in the post 9/11 world, you can't even breach an office food court without getting tazed.  Several years ago, I'd go for weekly steams at the local spa where you got your own private bath and unlimited (+free!) use of the spa products.  I'd steam it out, then moisturize myself to within an inch of my life with their $400 body cream -- Kanebo Sensai Premier.  


We became Y members a couple of years ago so we go there now. It's a beautiful facility and while the community steam room is no frills, it's clean. Mostly.  But I knew it would be different  from my past experiences when I spotted a woman eating a tuna sandwich in the neighboring sauna. 


Still, the Y steam room was especially dear to me over the past two years when I was going through treatment. It was a perfect place for visualization exercises.  I'd set up shop on my soggy towel and would envision myself sweating out cancer cells.  The only downside was feeling self conscious when other people were in there with me.  There's no need to make idle chit chat when you're sweating out toxic waste.  But it's even worse when you're bald and disfigured and just want to be invisible, an apparition in the fog.

An advantage of working from home though, is that I can avoid the throngs at the Y and sometimes even get the steam room all to myself.  Most days, I  find myself steaming among the elderly and Moms with jacked-up Madonna arms, taking advantage of the free babysitting.  That's all well and good.  However, I also have a nemesis. 


One of my neighbors is kind of a middle-aged version of "The Situation." He's one of these guys who finds it physically impossible to keep his shirt on. He mows the lawn shirtless, even if it's 50 degrees.  In the summer, he shuns his backyard and deck, props himself up on one of those rubberized chaise lounges from the 70s and sunbathes close to the street.  We see him all over town and he's a pleasant enough guy, just a little creepy. I once saw him leering at a table of young women at Uno's.  Leering at Uno's.  Really?  


And as much as he can't keep his shirt on, he can't stay out of the Y either.  He is always there. Always. And he frequents the steam room.  We'll call him Mr. Steamy.


Aside:  Not to be confused with Mr. Steamy dryer balls, which I have an unhealthy obsession with and will discuss on another post.

The last time we had an encounter in the steam room, my hair was in nascent stages of regrowth and I was bird-skinny.  I looked like Gollum wearing a furry bathing cap.  There were several people in the steam room that day and I sat on the far end, just wanting to close my eyes and do my visualization


Then I heard him:
.
"Hey, is that Kate over there?" 


Fuck. 


"How you doin? You look good. You feelin good? 


Then he proceeded to move over closer to me and ask if i had any recipes for stuffed mushrooms.  


It happened a few more times, but now I make sure his car is in his driveway before I venture over to the Y.  


Earlier this week, I suited up and headed to the steam room.  Sure enough, rounding the corner in full peacock strut -- Mr. Steamy, mindlessly fumbling his dryer balls. 

I did a mini cannon ball into the jacuzzi, splashing an older gent who muttered "Jesus" under his breath. Sorry.:)   


Mr. Steamy was heading in for a steam so I waited it out in the jacuzzi for a bit. When it was safe, I opened the door and walked in on a what felt like a scene from a mature porn film.


There were two older ladies exfoliating each other with sea salt from a Ziploc bag.  Another older man "Lou" was dropping some fragrant essential oils around the floors.  Then, lo and behold, Mr. Steamy comes back in with a vial of clear liquid that looked like some kind of lubricant. 


"Heyyyyy! Kate!  How you doin? Long time, no see. (slaps my back).  You look good.  You feel good?"


One of the women held out the Ziploc bag and asked me if I wanted some sea salt. She was gracious, but I just can't participate in public exfoliation.  


Mr. Steamy walks over to the place where Lou was dropping his oils.  "Ladies,Lou, try this..it's really strong eucalyptus.  A little different."   Mr. Steamy adds his concoction to the already overwhelming sinus-clearing cocktail that Lou had thrown down.   


"Oh, that's delicious," said one of the ladies, still rubbing herself silly with sea salt.


 Delicious. No..no..no.. it was like homemade tear gas! 


I was getting dizzy and anxious.  The exact opposite of my intent. 


It was time to blow out of this new age whore house.


Does anyone know how much it costs to install a steam shower or infrared sauna in the house?  The kids don't need to go to college, do they?

Random Quizzilla

It felt like a Quizzilla Friday today.  It's high time -- the last RQ was Oct 2008. Let's do this thing.   


1.  Do you hoard anything?
Free perfume samples. It's the French whore in me. 


2. Name five things that annoy you:  Platitudes, guitar solos lasting more than 6 minutes, Eeyore-esque FB statuses about aches and pains, xenophobes, the Olive Garden.


3. What is the last song you had stuck in your head? 
For the better part of a year, I (and several pals) have broken out into the theme song from “What Up With That” from SNL, not unlike Kenan Thompson does in the skit. Watch this clip and try NOT to sing it the rest of the day.

4.  When was the last time you slept on the floor? 

At Dreama's apartment in Manhattan last year.  

5.  What is your one of your favorite Urban Dictionary words?  

Rick-Rolled.  ** 

**If you clicked on the link, you've just been Rick-Rolled.

Overheard in the Kitchen

JAMES:  Paulie, next weekend is a long weekend.

PAUL:  I know.  It's Martin Luther King weekend.

JAMES:  Do you know who Martin Luther King was?

PAUL: (disdainfully)  Of course I do, Dad.

JAMES:  Who was he?

PAUL:  A pirate!

The "duh" was palpable in Paulie's response. After being corrected, however, he realized he was thinking about Christopher Columbus -- also technically not a pirate, but more understandable with all the ship imagery and pillaging and such. It's a good thing they are learning about MLK in school this week, because this moment, in a different place, could rival the time Caroline told the cashier at Whole Foods that she had yellow teeth.

"Ooh Hoo Makin' Money!"

The attendant at my regular parking garage looks like Pat Morita and I’m a bit obsessed with him.

I see him twice a week or so, whenever I have meetings in town.  Without fail, he approaches my car, a burning cigarette in one hand and a wad of cash in the other.  He hands me my parking stub and cat calls: “Ooh hoo! Makin’ money! Makin’ money!”

(What?)

Does he think I’m some pantsuit prostitute?  After a few times, I realized this was his trademark greeting, a pep talk of sorts to all us morose corporate souls, dragging our wheelie laptop bags behind us like balls and chains.

Today, a young man reeking of high finance (and failing to look hip in a fedora) looked affright as he grabbed his stub and quickened his pace to the stairwell.  Rookie.

“How long ya stayin, lady? Pat Morita says, as always.

I lie and say 30 minutes because I don’t want to leave my keys and get blocked in by the phalanx of cars and SUVs that will end up packed into every last inch of this garage by midday.  I made that mistake once and will never do it again.

“Ok, see ya latah,” he says

Pat waddles back to his tiny office, no bigger than an outhouse.  It has a small microwave with a piece of charred bubble wrap hanging over it.  A Healthy Ones frozen lunch sits on top of the bubble wrap next to a frozen 12-ounce Mountain Dew.

This garage is insane.  It operates like a nightclub – one out, one in -- with a “bouncer” standing by the ticket gates, waving in cars when spaces open up.  I use the word “spaces” somewhat tenuously. Spaces are irrelevant here. Cars are packed end-to-end, almost all the way to the exit for most of the day.  A line starts forming outside early and usually doesn’t subside. I’m sure they’re violating all kinds of codes, but I don’t care. Nobody cares.  It’s the cheapest garage downtown.  To get a rate this low, you’d have to park in the Seaport and then cringe in that icy head wind (hag face) over the Fort Point Channel.

If you get blocked in, though, you need a crash helmet and nerves of steel when it’s time to leave. When you return for your car, Pat Morita dispatches his posse of attendants who look like A Tribe Called Quest.  They fan out with pockets full of car keys and snap into action, moving the other cars around to dig yours out.  This is no small feat. These guys must be masters of sliding block puzzles.  They’re doing 18-point turns, swearing at each other, screeching in chaotic unison, like bumper cars trying NOT to bump each other.  Sometimes alarms are set off, and I’m sure there have been accidents.  But most of the time they get it right.  Even though it's terrifying to behold. 

The garage has been here as long as I can remember and the city has really morphed all around it.  I’m surprised it hasn’t been replaced by luxury condos or a Chipotle. They must doing something right. Still, it looks as out of place as I feel these days wandering around town.  

When I worked here, it was a giant construction site with a lot of jackhammering, dust and detours.  Now, it’s almost serene, walking down pretty, tree-lined streets that don’t dead end into glory holes (and having work days that don’t end with me drinking cheap wine out of a shoe at Weggie's Pub.)

Still, I'm happy to be back in here and makin' a little money (Ooh hoo!) from time to time.   Even Pat Morita is happy -- almost jolly -- in his work, even in his little outhouse office.  

At the end of the day, I retrieve my car and Pat’s still there.

“Hi, lady!  You make money today.”

“I did.”

“Good, good! Ya gotta make money! See ya latah!"

I climb into my unblocked car and maneuver my way down the ramp, trying not to sideswipe any cars illegally squeezed onto the median.

Then it hit me. “Makin' money” is not about Pat’s customers at all. It’s about him! It’s like his own personal ka-ching.  Every time he hands out a parking stub and crams in another car, he’s raking the cash in hand over fist.  Makin’ money!  Likely a lot more than most of us. Good for you, Pat.

As I caught sight of Pat in my rearview mirror, I swear he rolled up a dollar bill and began to smoke it.  

7 Minutes in Hell (aka First Night)

I've always found New Year’s Eve to be a collection of common disasters and I tend to avoid crowds whenever possible.  But my kind neighbor gave me 10 First Night Buttons and some VIP passes and it was 50 degrees outside. So, in a moment of holiday cheer (or weakness), I indulged my delusions of family magic in the city. I pictured us drinking hot cocoa and watching fireworks. I thought the kids would just love walking in the Grand Procession alongside some of those crazy large-headed puppets shooting laser beams into the sky.  The plan was drama free:  Caroline, Paulie and I would meet KT and her three kids on the BPL steps at 3 p.m. see some ice sculptures, perhaps get some faces painted, watch the freak parade, and be home by 6 p.m.

Visions of face painting danced in their heads. But it was not to be.

Within moments of meeting, however,  KT and I realized we should've just gone to the W for drinks, instead of wandering into this Copley Square clusterfuck with five young kids.

It was madness. It appeared that all of New England had converged on Boylston Street to take advantage of the balmy weather.  It was nearly impossible to keep the kids herded into our own personal space.  Worse, my kiddos aren't city savvy yet.   Without hypervigilance, they would wander into intersections, or stop short on a crowded street, sending disgruntled revelers veering into filthy snowbanks to avoid tripping over them.  This year, the sidewalks were narrowed further, partially roped off with yellow "caution" tape because of the ever-present threat of getting impaled by one of the death icicles dangling perilously from the buildings' underhangs. Every now and then, one would smash to the ground and it was like a window had fallen out of the John Hancock tower.  Mad crowds, hypervigilance, death icicles.  Happy New Year!  What the hell were we thinking?

I think Paulie knows the day is going to suck.  

What the hell were we thinking, part 2:  We purchased vuvuzelas for the kids.  

The First Night vendors are the creepiest lot, likely part of some prison work release program. And probably pedophiles. Another charming thought: Pedophiles selling light-up butterfly wands and disco ball scepters to legions of young children in crowded, chaotic places.     

First Night was not a great place for young kids, and certainly not for my generalized anxiety disorder.  

We walked up to the Hynes Convention Center in search of face painting.  Instead, we were accosted by a salesman who asked us if our basements were waterproofed.  We then learned that the line for face painting snaked around the entire convention hall. We decided to get the hell out of there.  "Hey guys! Wanna go see if the ice sculptures melted?"  

It was a 30 minute, two-block pilgrimage back to Copley Square.  It was a challenge not to lose the kids in the throngs.  The whole way, we were barking at them for their lack of spatial awareness. "Use the buddy system!" "Don’t space out on the escalators!" "Look out for that mailbox!"  "Watch the light pole!"  "Don’t blow the vuvuzelas in Starbucks!" I was starting to believe that people who leash their kids aren’t insane.  Finally, I just held onto their hoods.

Hold on to your hoods! Let's get some street meat!

And we thought the afternoon was bad so far? It hadn't even begun to suck!

Everyone was starving, so we got some fried dough and street meat and gawked at the sweating ice sculptures for a bit.  A couple of police officers asked if the kids wanted to sit on their motorcycles.  Paulie stood beside me eating a basket of chicken fingers, while the girls climbed into the seats.  

This was the final photo of the day for reasons that will become clear.

I snapped a photo of the girls, then went to grab Paulie’s hood and he was gone.  GONE!  I looked left, looked right, I spun around.  He was nowhere to be found.  We all started spreading out, calling his name.  I told Caroline to stay with KT, and I ran up and down the sidewalk with my hair on fire, peeking in between the throngs of people.  All I could think was: This is how it happens.  In a split second.  Someone took him.  He couldn’t have gotten out of sight in two seconds by himself in this huge crowd. With every frantic second that passed, it became more real.  I was shaking and running amok, screaming his name in a voice I’ve never heard before.  He was not anywhere in the immediate area.  I started running back to the police officers but was mobbed by Samaritans wanting to help: What does your son look like? What was he wearing?  How old is he? By now, I was hyperventilating, trying to get the words out:  Patriots sweatshirt. Brown hair.  He’s 6.

 Thankfully 10 –year-old DT (smart ) said “He was eating chicken nuggets!”  

One of the Samaritans yelled out: “I just saw a little boy in a Patriots sweatshirt with chicken nuggets.  I think he was up by the bus stop, just past Clarendon Street!”   This was a block and a half away.  We all took off – KT, the kids, the Samaritans. I was still convinced somebody had him.  I was in a full-on panic – an epic fail in the cool head department.  

Then beautiful words from DT :  “I see him! I see him!”  Then we all saw him at once. He was standing with a man, a woman and their two young sons, still holding his basket of chicken fingers. I screamed his name and he spotted me and ran to me crying.  The Samaritans and the young family that was watching him all broke into cheers.  I broke into convulsing sobs and just hugged Paulie for about five minutes.  Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.  

I’ve always told the kids if they get separated from us to find a policeman or a woman with children. But this woman found him first. She spotted him walking down Boylston Street, looking scared and totally lost.  She had the presence of mind to just stand with him there and not move,  "We are going to stay with you right here until your mom finds you.  She is definitely looking for you."  She also shared a simple but brilliant tip.  She writes her cellphone number on her kids’ arms so they can have someone call if they get lost. Paulie knows my cell phone but couldn’t recall it in the panic.  

How it happened:  Apparently, he spaced out and started following a woman who had a similar coat to mine.  I just can’t believe how far away he got in so little time.  This whole ordeal went down in about 7 minutes, but took about 7 years off my life.  

The single worst moment I’ve ever experienced. I don't even know what we would've done if KT and the sunshine band weren't with us.  Thank you, my friends.

Caroline, who was also shaken, piped up: “Quick! Let’s get out of here before someone else gets lost.”  Best idea we'd heard all day.  

When we got home, James tried to talk me down, saying it probably happened to about 100 people that day.  And that at least it happened in 2010.  True.  Best NYE ever: At home, everyone safe, watching Taio Cruz sing “Dynamite” in Times Square with Caroline and Paul in a bear hug on my lap.  And a gigantic goblet of red wine on the coffee table.  

Scenes from the Blizza

For hours, we sat slackjawed in front of the TV, Wii, and iPad.  Then we figured out how to turn Apples to Apples Disney Edition into a drinking game.  Some gratuitous shots from a serious snow day:

James tackles the heartattack snow while Caroline pelts him with icy snowballs and Vito
hampers progress.

James scares the shit out of the photog.

Vito cools his junk on a snowbank.

Seriously?

No creature tracks yet.

Bunny-sitting:  One of the rare shots of Zippy that doesn't include Vito trying to wheelbarrow
her cottontail.

There were balls and gravy.

And snowy trees.

And more snowy trees.  Pretty.

Get Drunk on the Christmas

Happy Holidays to all! Vito is going to reward everyone now with 30 seconds of uninterrupted eye contact.

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Word of the Day: Frottage

"I love living in Manhattan so much that I don't even mind it that much
when strangers dry hump me on the subway."  - Dream

My friend Dream came to town to celebrate the Sag/Cap birthdays and within minutes our pre-Beehive conversation turned to the phenomenon of Frottage.  From the french for "rubbing," Frottage is basically the act of dry humping unsuspecting people in crowded spaces.  Apparently this happens often in NYC and in larger cities, usually in night clubs or on the subways.  And while it's not accepted, it's by no means uncommon.  Dream said the "frotteurs" as they are called, "just get on you on a packed subway car and there's no where to go really." In her case, she stomped on the guy's foot but it only seemed to encourage him more.  "He was like a golden retriever on my leg."     


Dream did a little investigating and learned that Frottage was recently added to the DSM as a legit psychological disorder. In fact, the frotteurs prefer it when the humpee is an unconsenting stranger.  I can't imagine a scenario where anyone would welcome some gyrating intruder -- and definitely not on public transportation!  Thanks for that!  Would you like me to buy you a donut with sprinkles at the next stop?   

In all my years riding the T, I'm thankful that I never experienced this phenomenon, but I'm shocked that I have never witnessed it.  A large sweaty person fell on top of me on the Green Line once and lingered for what seemed like an unreasonable amount of seconds.  Another time, a dude who looked like Richard Simmons sat across from me on the train wearing short mesh gym shorts. Seconds later, his junk was weaving out of one side like a charmed snake. I've definitely seen and experienced the occasional grope, but a full-on dry hump? No.

Apparently, some well-trained "subway" frotteurs have honed their skills to the point where they are so attuned to the clickety clack of a train on tracks, that they can convince their unwitting victim that "maybe it is just a duffel bag."   Not all of these renegade rubbers are men, either. Many women are part of the movement as well, according to one of their Facebook pages.

This FB site is UK based and features hilarious descriptions of different types of "frotjects."  I've pasted them into the post below.  Study the list.  The next time you're in a crowded space, you may realize that jogging stroller behind you is not a jogging stroller at all!  It could be a "The Blitzkrieg."   We're pretty sure that Dream got "Bus Stopped." 

'DRY HUMP'

The canine approach, favoured by those new to the practice, used openly on friends, usually in a pub or club. One grabs the subject of the frottage (the Frotject) and while maintaining a firm grip with your arms on any available encirclable appendage they possess, repeatedly hammer your pelvis against their leg.

'THE RAA THRUST'

A more subtle approach. Perfect for drinks parties and when amongst new friends. Facing, and in close proximity to your Frotject, ensure you have a G&T in your left hand and your right hand in your trouser pocket. Whilst making the small talk, crack a ribald joke or comment and laugh obnoxiously loudly whilst simultaneously arching your back away and thrusting your hips forward into the Frotject. (Good Frommonts ((Frot comment)) to accompany the thrust are, 'COME FAR?' and 'LOVELY DAY FOR IT!'

'THE BLITZKREIG'

A lightning attack on unsuspecting prey. Perfect to use on the beautiful stranger on that darkened dance floor. Gains maximum frottage for minimum slappage with strangers. Circle your frotject without making any obvious advance in their direction, gradually edging closer (similar to stalking wildebeast). Place your innermost advance to be situated immediately behind the Frotject. Under the play of grooving to whatever godawful song is lacerating the tender ambience of whatever sticky floored, red wallpapered, jug filled lounge you may find yourself in, raise your arms and, similar to the raa thrust, gyrate and thrust your crotch into the callipigian rump found in front of you. Immediately spin away to absorb yourself anonymously into the crowd to assume your innocent dancing.

'THE BUS STOP'

Queuing for drinks at the bar, bank queues, standing on the tube. The most reckless of frottage involves a long contact frot, probably the most sensuous of frots on strangers. In a busy bar queung for drinks, one may engage themselves to press overly far forwards and 'hold' themselves against the back of the innocent frotject ahead of you in the queue. If any protestations of contact occur, the offence is easily palmed off to the people pushing behind you.

'FENCING IN'

A skillful dance of the frotteur, dancing with your chosen partner guide the frotject towards a wall and keep bumping and grinding whilst pinning them against said wall. Great for turning that innocent boogy into something far more sinister.

'COWBOY'

One of the more rambuctious approaches to frottage. straddle your prey while they unsuspectingly take a break on a chair/sofa and ride the frot.

No longer a misanthrope

Euphoric.

Not Paulie.  Me. I am officially no longer a misanthrope. My faith in humanity has been shored up by some extraordinary kindnesses over the past two years, often in unexpected places.  This weekend: another testament to the random kindness of strangers.  Caroline and I had our girls' night at the Nutcracker a few weeks ago (thanks, Momma!) and Paulie and I had our own night out at the Bruins on Saturday night (thanks, Michelle P!).  We went super premium in the plush Heineken Boardroom.  Before we sat down, Paulie plotted his mission to get on the Jumbotron and I lingered by a carving station with a glass of pinot noir.  A group of men sitting in the front row saw Paulie and I trying to find a seat.  They all got up and rearranged their row so we could sit in the leather club chairs right up front.  Though he was the youngest kid in the Boardroom, Paulie got everyone on their feet, led the "Let’s go Bruins" chant and got up on the  Jumbotron twice before the game even started.  He treated our seat neighbors to his best Rene Rancourt impersonation, complete with fist pump.  Then he removed his yellow Bs cap, placed it over his heart and belted out the National Anthem.  

Lord of the Jumbotron

It was  heartwarming to see strangers enjoying his company, *appreciating* him and being right on board with his passion and silliness and incessant toasting with Sprite.  He told his new friend Jack that his favorite player was Tyler Seguin and that Tim Thomas rocked.   Jack disappeared for a bit during the third period. When he returned to the Boardroom, he handed Paulie a bag.  Inside: a brand new Seguin shirt from the Pro Shop.   Still flying high from his third appearance on the Jumbotron, Paulie became positively elated.  I thought he was going to faint.  I teared up and thanked Jack for his generous gesture.  He waved it off.  "Merry Christmas! He's a great little guy!"

There's a lot of good will floating around out there lately.  I need to plug into it.  I love the stories about people buying coffee for the drivers behind them in line at the Dunkies drive thru. I may have to start drinking coffee again.

And more good will.  Last week, a local company, Brownstone Insurance, pledged to donate $5 to Paula's family for every person who "Likes" their Facebook page.  Watching that number go from 12 to 1,200 within an hour of posting...let's just say I haven't cried that hard since the Apple store replaced my shattered iPhone free of charge even though it was past warranty.  Unexpected places.  Not a misanthropic bone in my body.

So I'm on a MISSION today to do a random good deed.   Any ideas? 

Boulos and I in the Boardroom

Lennon, man

Elizabeth Edwards

I was planning on posting a couple of John Lennon songs today.  I certainly wasn't expecting this. When I heard the news, I felt like someone kicked me behind the knees. Then, I began steeling myself for an onslaught of packaged, flowery news stories; of celebrity doctors prattling on about early detection; and of tabloid mags salivating over the prospect of reliving the big scandal.  I flipped on the Today Show this morning and heard a truly bizarre interview with that Dr. Nancy lady about "the good death" and "owning the death."  Wha?  It's been less than 24 hours; it's a little premature, Dr. Nancy.  Obviously trying way too hard for a "more enlightened" news angle. Show some restraint. Wretched hag.


Amid all of the muck, I can't stop thinking about five friends of mine, in particular, who are feeling the unavoidable uneasiness this morning.  Hang on, ladies.  If anyone needs wine this week, you know where to find me.  


When I was trying to diagnose myself on Google, I found an interview with Elizabeth Edwards where she discussed finding her own lump: "I'd like to say that I found it because I was doing a breast exam," Edwards says. "No. I found it because it was just so friggin' large. In fact, I was thinking, 'How could I have not felt this yesterday?'"


I knew exactly what she meant.  How do you walk around with what feels like a ceramic hummel in your boob and not be aware of it?  But it happens. Sure, you wish you could've found it earlier, but at the same time, you were out living your life, not scouring your body, groping for impending doom, or searching for disease in every discomfort or discoloration.  


Be vigilant, but not doomy and obsessive. You'll hear enough about early detection this week so I'll spare you my screed here. :)

I love Edwards' final message that she doesn't want to be remembered for "losing" her battle with cancer.  She wants to remembered for living a good life.  Amen. 


Aside: "I'll save my 'battles' for AT&T's customer service reps."  Mary Elizabeth Williams, a melanoma survivor, discusses why it's time to put to rest the tired cliches of "battling" or "losing the battle to" cancer.

Earlier this year, some opportunist political hacks published a book about the 2008 campaign trail that excoriated Edwards for being a raving lunatic bitch. It was distasteful, poorly sourced, and felt like an unnecessary piling on (but, hey, it sells books). At the same time, I thought, if "bitch" was the worst label these people could attach to Edwards, perhaps she should wear it as a badge of honor.  I felt badly for Edwards but was relieved to hear she wasn't a saint.  If anything, it made me like her even more for being human. 


A Jan 2010 column by writer Connie Schultz was quoted many times after that book came out.  I hope it gets rolled out again when the publicity whores crawl out from beneath their rocks this week to critique Edwards' behavior in and out of the public eye over the past few years. 

"If I were living Elizabeth Edwards' life, I'm not sure who I'd be by now, and that uncertainty is mighty humbling.

We want to believe the best about ourselves. We watch someone else stumble and insist we'd respond differently. But live long enough, and life will bring you to your knees. I have not buried a child. I do not have incurable cancer. I have not been betrayed by the man I love, never had to set eyes on the baby the entire world knows he fathered behind my back.


I know this: I would stumble forward in pieces."

I Think I May Be Over Thinking Things

I'm listening to Vito growl at a coil of fresh garland that I'm supposed to be stringing up but I keep getting drawn back in here.  I miss the PU.  I made a few ham-fisted attempts to start another blog over the past couple of months but could never quite agree on a name, or design, or font, or some other silly setting.  At one point, I actually used the word "rebranding."  Out loud.  Then I immediately had the urge to smack myself upside the head with a Mistletoe-scented Yankee Candle (large jar variety).  How could I let inane corporate speak tarnish this terrain?  Circle back up your own arse; this is not a goat rodeo, it's the PU!

Actually it's simple procrastination.  I've been paralyzed by fear.  After all that's happened the past two years, I'm afraid I have nothing to write about, or worse, nothing to say.  But, in revisiting some of the pre-2009 posts, I realized that never stopped me before.

So, it's 1 p.m. on a Tuesday and I've just poured myself a glass of red this big (no judgment) to see if I can conjure the spirit of this rudderless blog.  If Vito doesn't lift his peg leg anywhere near the garland in the next few minutes, we could be in business.

Updates (just in case...)

I lost my amazing sister-in-law Paula on Aug 9 and it's been nothing less than a spiritual amputation for everyone.  Anyone who has experienced loss can attest it's like waking up in a new reality that you never wished for.  She was a fixture on this blog and with bear hugs to Peg M and e.e cummings, the mantra:  "i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart).  i am never without it (anywhere you i go you go, my dear)."

I wrote this essay about Paula for the Patriot Ledger in Oct and it's much more clearheaded than anything I could repeat here about the impact P had on me.  You would hear 100+ similar stories from anyone who knew her.

The Rack

I started the first phases of reconstruction back in April and it was touch and go for a several months as to whether the teets would “take." I had my final surgery on Nov 12 and all is well.  I look pretty much the same as before but they're just *out there.*  I didn’t want to look like a porn star (at least not permanently) so we're not dealing in cannonballs so much as billiard balls. Rack 'em up.

I'd write about the surgery experience but thanks to a wonderful, amnesia-producing pharmaceutical called Versed, it's all eternal sunshine. I remember nothing except an orderly in the recovery room who may or may not have been a member of Alice in Chains in the 90s.   

Other news:

Vito has lost 6 pounds... 

Can't you tell?

How about from this angle?

So, with a giant sigh and a "WTF was that," I'm ready to move forward.  Can the PU be reignited?  Can I get a fawning chorus of Hallelujiahs or boos?  I'll cry either way...believe.

And in the End...

(Rolling out)

My last post was October 29th? Really?

It’s official. The PU can’t go back to being what it once was. After this past year, it’s just too awkward a segue.

I've tried but I can't conjure the universe of yore, pre-2009: Extemporaneous musings on whatever the pointy finger was trained upon, be it Dunkin' Donuts or Mixed Tapes. Random Quizzillas, Suppah Clubs, Wee Brown shenanigans, Vito Video, Cream Shop Fridays, Rants on current events, etc.

But if I’ve learned anything this year, it's that the energy goes where it's needed most.

I started the PU in June 2005 as a respite from the daily shit show. I'd just moved to the suburbs. I freelanced at home with a one and a two year old (and no sitter). I'd been chronicling my daily observations in notebooks and journals since I was old enough to spell, but this type of writing was different. Being so isolated, I needed a way to plug in, and the PU provided the perfect outlet.

Also, at age 35, I felt like my life and the lives of my friends were on some life-altering cusp. We had one foot in the adult world, the other one stubbornly entrenched in a more youthful one. During this time, we essentially lived two lives: One about family life: We get married, have kids, buy homes and go to BJ's Wholesale Club. The other about the craic: We mainline bowls of loud mouth soup in town and act out, sing Beatles songs, and kitchen dance on Nantucket vacations. Such transition naturally gives rise to introspection, analysis, and ridiculous situations. For me, the PU became a way to celebrate the small joys during this time. And to rage against the incurious. I also had a million laughs connecting with people the only way I really know how.

As a bonus, I made new friends and reconnected with old ones. I acquired some new sparring partners and had a crash course in Shoebox philosophy more valuable than any degree. I conversed with regular readers and butted heads with more than a few angry trolls. I've been insulted and inspired, but mostly inspired. Somewhere along the way I learned anything can be solved or celebrated with a bottle of red wine and a kitchen chinwag.

Now, I'm on the other side of the cusp. In the past year, I beat cancer, celebrated my 10th year wedding anniversary and turned 40 in a blow-out party (thank you). And so far the view from this side is awesome.

That said, I feel the PU has reached its natural end. Five years is a good run. I'm tempted to say I'm taking some time off to be with my family but that statement in 2010 sounds like I'm covering up a a sex scandal involving Nutella fudge and a hidden camera. In the coming months, I am going to focus on some new work assignments and writing projects. And of course, James, the wee brown ones and Vito. The energy is going where it's needed most.

I WILL launch another blog. The drive to document hasn't waned, it just needs to change shape. If you care in the slightest, please subscribe to this site and you’ll be pinged with any updates -- and possibly a new link or muse.

Wishing you so much peace and joy in 2010 that you have to unbutton your pants and be cut out of your winter coat with fabric shears.

Signing off for now.

With love,
KJ

Energy Healing with Ms. PacMan and German Shepherds

Body, mind, spirit -- not quite sex, drugs & rock-n-roll but a similar package deal. Each has some effect on the other. I've been taking care of the body and mind as best I can, but have been focused on the spirit as of late. I've started Kundalini yoga, which focuses on meditation as well as poses. It's been a challenge not to dissolve into church giggles during the chanting portion of the class, but I'm getting better. I've also been trying to scare up some Reiki on a regular basis.

I have two good friends and a cousin in California who are Reiki masters but I needed someone closer to home (and less close to me) to do some massage on my busted soul.

Aside: During brunch at Strawberry Fair many months ago, I was telling some pals about the Reiki masters. A distracted Cameo replied, "What? Reggae Masters? You mean like Rastafarians?"

After some online research and a flurry of emails, I found a practitioner nearby, a woman who does Reiki, Acupressure and Craniosacral massage interchangeably. She also had a number of glowing testimonials from cancer patients. The therapist told me she could come to my house but I thought it would be more helpful if I got out of my daily element, i.e., the hulking pile of laundry in the corner, rugs encrusted with Honey Nut Cheerios, Vito whining by the fridge, etc.

She said her studio in the woods offered a great healing environment -- “if you don’t mind rustic." Now, I’m not a big fan of rustic but can handle it in small doses if it's within driving distance to Dunkies or Starbucks. I scribbled directions on the back of a Hannaford's receipt and headed out.

Aside: Google Maps pinpointed three DDs and two Starbucks between here and there and it was only a few minutes drive.

Per her directions, I pulled onto a dirt road with no street sign. An adorable yellow lab freaked out in the first yard on the right (also per her directions). As I drove deeper into the woods -- and way, way up a hill -- the road became narrower, the brush thicker. The leaves and branches hung lower and lower over my car brushing past the windows like the bristles in a car wash. I started thinking that you could not only hide a body up here, but also an entire car. I drove a few more yards and then stopped the car, thinking I'd bail on this half-assed holistic mission. Are this many trees necessary for chilling?

But then the therapist appeared a little further up the road. She was a tall woman with very broad shoulders. Her hair, grayish brown, hung past her waist; her bangs were cropped severely across her forehead. She was part Kevin McHale, part Danielle Rousseau from Lost. She raised her long arm, beckoning me to pull my car up a little further.

Shit.

I glanced at her directions, which I'd scribbled down verbatim: “Pull to the very end of the road. Cut the engine.”

Cut the engine?! Her choice of words suddenly struck me as alarming. I decided I would tuck my iPhone under the floor mat in my car so the police could track me on the GPS if I went missing. I pulled my car forward. Then I decided I should probably keep my phone close by in case I needed to call 911. She signaled for me to stop. I was convinced I'd wandered into the lair of some insane Craig's List killer or a scene from the book "Lovely Bones." In a few months, that yellow lab would dig up my elbow or femur.

Then I remembered to breathe: A) I didn't find her on Craig's List. b) She came highly recommended, and it was my idea to come here. c) Relax.

I wasted a little time pretending to rifle around in the front seat and then stepped out of the car. She walked ahead of me, not speaking.

I degenerated into inane nervous chit chat: "So, how long have you been up here?" “Wow, is that your horse over there?"

She answered me, Rousseau-style, one-word answers: "Twenty years." "Yes."

Her studio, outfitted in a small log cabin, was cozy and warm. And once inside, she became a different person, very soothing and personable. Or maybe I finally tuned out my irrational mind.

For the entire two hours, she explained in great detail how energy healing works. She discussed blocked chakras and the flow of chi and the power of visualization. She said she knew of a woman who actually cured her own cancer by picturing two doves flying around inside her body, pecking at corn kernels that represented cancer cells. When the corn kernels were gone, so was her cancer.

Aside: Ok, definitely skeptical about that one but I've decided to visualize Ms. Pacman and a pack of German Shepherds -- because why not.

She also shared techniques for dodging the shards of negative energy, however insignificant, that bombard us daily. From the news to DBs at Derby Street to road ragers to the Octomom, even the small things, overtime, can pollute the soul. And they're harder to dodge than you think (without imaginary German Shepherds).

Aside: Herein, the phrase "it is what it is" earns you a bombardment with New Age crystals.

Driving home from the massage, I was teeming with chi, caffeine free, no need to stop for coffee when you have Reiki. The rhyming and healing continues...

Shamelessly Pimping My Words Again

(As Dr. Nic would say: "Big face, big face.")

Pink Lady
Today, the Patriot Ledger features a sort of in her own words story and audio slide show on the wee brownies and me. Vito even makes a few cameos (be kind: the camera adds five pounds) Great family photos, but the sound of my voice makes me want to crawl under the nearest braided rug.



"The Devil Wears a Mini Skirt?" -- KB
Also in today's PL is an article I wrote on how slutty Halloween costumes for young girls enrage parents. Some great quotes from local mommas who have insightful, often hilarious takes on the issue.

The Land of Ned

Last October, I participated in breast cancer walks. I clicked on the pink ribbon in a Facebook application or two. I even scoffed down one of those pink bagels from Panera Bread.

What I did not do, however, was perform a self-breast exam (SBE) or schedule a mammogram. Granted, the restroom at Panera is not the ideal location for an SBE. Still, once I polished off a bagel, sponsored a walk or logged off Facebook, breast cancer simply slipped my mind. I was only 38 years old. I have a family history of cancer but have always been vigilant about annual check-ups and leafy greens.

Then three days before Christmas, I was flipping channels with my daughter and we came across the movie “The Sweetest Thing” starring Cameron Diaz and Christina Applegate. It was the scene where Diaz’s character, age 28, is standing in a dressing room, talking about breasts and gravity.

She pushes her breasts up to where they were when she was 22, then lets them fall to where they are now at age 28. She repeats this a few times, “22, 28, 22, 28.” My daughter found this hilarious, so I mimicked the movements. Then I felt something in my left breast. Something big and weird, like a ceramic hummel, one of the creepier ones, possibly pushing a wheel barrow with a hairless cat. I decided to schedule a doctor's appointment for after the New Year, because mammograms around the holidays…meh.

Aside: I think Christina Applegate, a breast cancer survivor, may have had all her films re-edited with subliminal messages to perform SBEs.

My first ultrasound was “suspicious.” I ran around with my hair on fire, ordering $200 worth of supplements from the Internet. I Googled images of malignant mammograms and learned the medical terms that would condemn or save me.

I pointed to my mammogram films and asked my doctor, “Are those pleomorphic calcifications in the upper left quadrant.” “Yes,” she said, pointing them out.

“I see they’re in a cluster, but are they also linear,” I squeaked out this question, knowing the answer. The doctor suggested I stay off the Internet and said the results, while “worrisome,” didn’t necessarily translate into doom.

I Googled survival rates. What was I going to tell my kids? I was officially swept into the current.

The MRI and biopsy results brought the final verdicts crashing over me like a series of rogue waves. You have breast cancer (CRASH). Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, stage 3 (CRASH). It’s in the nodes (CRASH). Just as I was getting my footing, the final wave ripped the suit from my body and knocked me to the ground: You need chemotherapy, a mastectomy, and radiation, starting immediately. I felt completely naked, lying in child’s pose on the floor of the doctor’s office, not wanting to walk out and face what was ahead.

Whenever I saw a pink ribbon, I saw red. The color pink, so soft and feminine, represents a disease that completely defeminizes; a disease that robs women of their breasts, their hair, their sex drive, their self image. Not to mention the pink ribbons are so ubiquitous that they’ve become generic and no longer mean anything. Each diagnosis is as individual as the woman going through it. We all need to find our own talisman.

My grandmother, Nana Rie, got breast cancer at age 37. She died in perfect health at age 81 after being struck by a car on her way home from a dance class. I wanted to conjure her spirit. Instead of pink ribbons, I wore her funky costume jewelry and pins. I wore medals and good luck charms. I showed up to my first treatment looking like George Clinton.

Nevertheless, I give thanks to the pink ribbon and its army. One in eight women will get breast cancer in their lifetime. Because of the pink ribbon, and the sheer numbers who’ve contributed to the cause, coffers overflow with research dollars and many more women will survive, even thrive, after breast cancer.

Aside: There was a fantastic article by Kris Frieswick in the Boston Globe Magazine about companies profiting from the pink ribbon. It’s something worth keeping in mind before purchasing pink products.

At the market last week, I saw “Sweet and Low” candies emblazoned with the pink ribbon. My first reaction was, “Wait, doesn’t that stuff cause cancer?” Even if it doesn’t it can’t be healthy. Going forward, I’ve decided that instead of buying pink candy, I’ll donate to a local breast cancer charity like Learn, Live, Love here on the South Shore. When I see pink, I’ll grab a healthy whole food snack and remind a friend about early detection. I’ll book a massage or take a yoga class. I’ll not only donate to great causes, but invest in my own health and wellness along the road to the land of NED (No Evidence of Disease).

Burn, MF, Burn

Around a backyard bonfire with James, the wee brownies and some pals --  a glass of Veuve Clicquot in hand -- I torched the johnny.  Then I went to my car, found the mesh tube top, and torched that too.   

The Sacrificial Johnny

Rad # 35 -- Today, 11 a.m., DF L2
Tomorrow marks the end of a seven-week journey that began with gamma rays and meditation and ended with second degree burns and Percocet. Radiation -- or "rads," as the cool cancer patients call it -- blindsided me in its degree of suckage. My Irish/Italian skin is no stranger to sunburn, having sizzled with baby oil and other foolish grease during my teens and early 20s. I figured a religious application of aloe would suffice just as it had in sunburns past. But these are not normal sunburns. These are like nuclear holocaust burns. I'm torched! If anyone knows where I can rent a hyperbaric chamber, please let me know.

After 35 rads, I'm pretty freakish. I'm hobbling around, Igor-like, and can't swing my arms when I walk. Simple cotton T-shirts are like an all-out assault on the torso. That's the physical toll. I'm fried mentally as well. Every day since August 10, I’ve driven to the DF for an 11 a.m. appointment. I've suited up in a johnny, gotten blasted, and then driven home in a mesh tube top jury-rigged with Aquafor and an ice pack. By 3 p.m each day, I've collapsed in a heap, narcoleptic. Waah. BUT.. all this slashing and burning seems to be working. And now, there's just one treatment remaining! Just as hair grows, skin heals and energy recharges. Within a few weeks, things should be back to some semblance of normal. And, overall, I've had it pretty good. Things could have gone far worse.

Aside: Whoever invented Aquafor needs to be glorified from on high.

(TBB)

Still, today at the DF, something snapped in me; it was similar to Easter Sunday when I hurled my clogs into the brook behind my house. This time, I focused my frustration on the shapeless, generic johnny and all it represents. It's the gown of the sick, designed for intrusive treatments; its faulty twill ties are the culprit of many unintentional ass flashings. After I changed back into my regular clothes today, I seized the johnny. I was going to chuck it out the nearest window and watch it flutter down onto Binney Street. Then I remembered I was on the basement floor of the DF. Curses! So I balled it up, stuffed it in my purse and beat feet out of there. I am going to do to the johnny what’s been done to me for the past seven weeks: I’m gonna burn the MF.

For awhile now, I've been planning a "Fuck Cancer" bonfire where I will incinerate all tangible memories of cancer -- the headscarves and wigs, the jeans and yoga pants that I wore to chemo and radiation over and over again, my eyebrow kit, a pair of North Face flip flops, and maybe even a few organic yogurts for good measure. The whole idea of this bonfire delights the tiny pyromaniac that lives inside my soul. Last month, James and my nephew dug an old school firepit in my yard, the primary intention being a gathering spot for this fall -- roasting marshmellows, drinking wine, and watching football (many thanks to our dear Rowlettes who have provided the outdoor TV for this endeavor!). But I also plan to do some hard core destruction out there once my treatment is finished. While I'm not officially finished until May, I'm going to sacrifice the johnny tomorrow evening to mark the end of rads. Milestones!

Rad One -- August 10th, DF, L2
The radiation therapists are a bunch of good looking extroverts in their 20s; they've gathered in the treatment room to check out the tattoos on my chest. This is not some strange fantasy. A fews weeks earlier, my radiation oncologist tattooed a smattering of freckle-sized dots across my radiation fields. This is done so the therapists can line up the radiation beams in the same spot each day.

This is an awkward situation for me but the therapists are thoroughly unfazed. All of them appear to be gifted in the art of small talk. These are exactly the kinds of people you want hovering over you when you're lying topless on a narrow table, arms in straps over your head, your disfigured body and jutting scars on full display. They are true professionals who look you in the eye and ask you about your weekend plans while they are drawing dotted lines on your chest (connecting the tats!) with a green Sharpie. For a few moments, I don't feel like my dignity is hanging by a shred, I feel like I'm at jury duty. It's almost casual.

Rad Random -- Tues., Sept 22nd
A rotund young man singing opera by the elevator banks in the parking garage -- in Italian and everything.

Rad (Crap!) -- Mon., Sept 21st
With only a week left, my radiation oncologist decided to she wanted to add on a few extra treatments because of some internal mammary nodes that looked "hot" (aka cancerous) on an MRI that I had back in Jan. Apparently, cancers in the internal nodes are most likely to spread and/or recur. For me, they were the nodes that made the difference between stage 2 and stage 3 (and right now, I'm a stage nuthin). So, the doc said why not throw everything and the kitchen sink at this thing now to give us a better chance of not having to do it again later. Yes. Yes, please. LDT. Let's throw it all out there -- kitchen sinks, cafeteria trays, plastic bags of deli meat -- whatever works. I don't want to ever do this again.

Rad Pals
Going into the DF every day, you start to see the same people over and over again. Overtime, you develop a camaraderie and adopt a set of unspoken rules. For instance, there are no empty platitudes thrown around, no words about thanking God every day for the gift of C. Everyone here is all too aware of how much this sucks. If prayers are offered up, they are for the strength to get through it all -- for us and those who have to deal with us. Another rule: When it's someone's first day, whoever has been there the longest sort of welcomes the new person and explains what it's been like, etc. Most important rule: Be positive. Nobody needs to be brought crashing down on their first day of rads when they have 30-40 more ahead of them.

Here are some of the pals (names changed):

Stats:

Mary (lung), age 72. She is Florence Henderson with a brogue. A beautifully-dressed, positive force of energy. Most days she worries about how her husband of 49 years is handling all of this. She talks about their place in Florida and how she can't wait to get back there when she is better. All around lovely woman.

Lisa (breast), age 37. Just got married last year and was trying to get pregnant when she was diagnosed. Had her eggs frozen pre-chemo so she can get back to her plans next year. She has the exact same diagnosis as me, but had a really tough time with chemo and is still on crutches because of neuropathy. She has no tolerance for whining. She's always smiling, always compliments people on their hair growth, and loves the word "frig."

Stephanie (breast), Newton, age 44. On oxygen (no idea why she's on oxygen). Like a thundercloud in the room. Always discussing her ailments and general misery. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that out of the four of us in the room, she's got the best prognosis. A total camel.

Enter Ruth from Dorchester (lung), age 62. She walks through the waiting room, having just finished her first radiation treatment. "That was like getting abducted by aliens!" she says. We all laugh. Ruth works at Brigham & Women's; she just had surgery, and will be doing rads on her lunch hour every day. She has 6 kids and 18 grandchildren. She jokes that she doesn't know half of their names. "Every now and then one of them runs through my kitchen and I say, 'Who the hell are you?'"

What we say to Ruth:

MARY: We just do the best we can. We are lucky to live in Boston, we are in the best possible place.
LISA: Yes, Boston is the best city to get cancer in, no doubt.
ME: This place gives you confidence in your treatments, which has got to help with healing on some level.
STEPHANIE: “That's all true, but unfortunately, cancer always wins.”

UGH. I could hear the Debbie Downer “wuh wahh” hanging in the air. MF camel.

What we say to Stephanie:

ME: Not always.
What I wanted to say: Whatever, keep fucking that chicken.

MARY: Now, now.
What Mary probably wanted to do: Hurl a waiting room chair in her direction.

LISA: [Blank stare]
What Lisa probably wanted to say: Why the frig are you on oxygen!?

Absolutely astounding. Stephanie will say she's just being "honest" and "a realist" but the only reality is that she has a shitty attitude and personality. Another reality: Five years from now, Mary, Lisa, Ruth and I will all be alive and kicking. In the meantime, I'm sure Stephanie will have found something else to die from.

Just then, a man pushing a catering cart enters the waiting room. He's got Poland Spring, Diet Coke, Sun Chips, Power Bars and a ton of Fig Newtons on offer. His name tag says "Jesus," and since he's a young Hispanic man, I'm assuming he goes by the Hispanic pronunciation.

Then Ruth -- arms raised like she's celebrating mass -- cries out: “Praise the Lord! Jesus is here!" (New Testament pronunciation)

Holy crap.

We all look at her, horrified. Jesus tosses her a bag of Sun Chips. Apparently, Ruth knows him from the Brigham and this is the way she always greets him and his snack cart.

In the corner, I see that Stephanie has crumbled into convulsive, soundless laughter.

Perhaps there is hope for the camels, after all.

Tsang's Willage Cafe, Thursday, Sept. 24
My BC-surviving friend Julie and I met over some Chinois and dirty martinis. I schlepped in, all stooped over, still wearing my mesh tubey under my clothes. Having been there, done that, she immediately knew what to say as she's known the unspoken rules all along: "I know I never told you this before because I knew it would've been the worst possible thing to hear. RADIATION SUCKS!!!!"

Time to let it rip. I told her I couldn't wait until the 29th, to be done, and she gave me more words of wisdom about managing expectations. She told me how she and her husband planned a night out on the town the day she finished radiation, got a hotel room and everything. Unfortunately, she felt awful. Even though she was psyched to be finished, she was still burnt and fatigued. She reminded me that even though you're ready to be done and want to just snap out of it and be back to normal, it can take a few weeks to get there. Her first reaction when coming out of treatment was being hit with a "What the fuck WAS that that I just went through?" You're focused so much on the daily grind that stepping back from it all can be overwhelming. So, it'll take some time before it's a blip on the radar (still my favorite metaphor), but we'll get there.

Speaking of which, there was a great piece in Sunday's Globe on how metaphors help us make sense of the world around us. So here's mine for the day:

Cancer is the bug that hits you in the mouth when you're trying to do your job. It knocks you off your game for a little bit, but then you recover and carry on like it never happened. In short, it's a blip on a radar, as illustrated by this awesome guy: